


I'm Still Here

by maydependent, Wahnsinn



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Aging, Angst, Death, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28985343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydependent/pseuds/maydependent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahnsinn/pseuds/Wahnsinn
Summary: Paul looks at old photos.If you're sensitive, please read the notes at the end first.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26





	I'm Still Here

The storage box lid creaks as Paul lifts it off and sets it aside, revealing stacks of photos. Sitting comfortably in his favourite armchair, he randomly picks up a bundle wrapped in acid free paper. Removing the paper, he begins to flick through the pictures that are from their first trip to America, then sets them aside.

He peeks into an envelope that holds some promo pictures. Lifting the box into his lap, he places neatly wrapped stacks on the coffee table and collects the lonely pictures from the bottom of it, before putting the box down on the floor. 

There's a picture that he took of himself in an elevator through a mirror. Paul inspects it, then smiles and puts it aside. A few pictures are from a beach, one with a strange looking statue in the back. One is taken outside a building, probably a hotel.

What really catches his attention is a group photo. Paul looks at the picture closely, cataloguing the small details.

There's a loud knock on the door.

Paul lifts his head and looks around to search for the source of the sound. His eyes skim over the blue linoleum floor and pale green walls. There's a wooden cabinet near the window which is framed by dark green curtains. His eyes find a bed and two doors.

Without noticing, his hands squeeze the picture. They create a sharp dent that cuts through Richard's face right at his jaw, turning the expression into a weird one-sided frown.

The door at the corner of the room is pushed open. There are voices that Paul can't recognise. A tall, slender figure steps into the room. He says something over his shoulder, then scrapes at the thick, grey beard before closing the door behind him.

Paul looks at the picture in his hands.

"Good afternoon. How are you, Paul?"

The voice is loud, but not for Paul, who is furrowing his brows, eyes scanning the worn photo.

"You are looking at old pictures again." It's not a question, but a statement. 

The man pulls a chair next to Paul's armchair and sits down. He reaches for the photo, pulling it gently from the tight grip and smooths it between his fingers.

"Now, that's better." The man shows the picture to Paul, who instead looks at the stranger who has suddenly appeared next to him. "Richard's head got a bit dented, but it's better now."

"You are a nurse or is it dinner yesterday must eating…" The well thought-through sentence blurs into a random mix of words and turns into an unintelligible mush.

The tall stranger smiles compassionately and takes Paul's fragile hand in his, wrinkles around his kind eyes. "Paul. I'm Oliver."

"Oliver?"

"Yes, Paul. It's me, Oliver."

They look at each other for a short while. A slight smile appears on Paul's face, and he turns back to the photo.

"That's me in the picture, there." Oliver points at the younger man leaning against a jeep, dressed in a safari outfit, long boots and a pith helmet. "We've gotten old, me and you."

Paul sits quiet as if he is considering something, confused eyes giving away that he no longer understands much. Trembling hand swipes over the picture, drawing an invisible scrawl.

"Till, Schneider, Olli, Richard, Paul, Flake." He lists the names of the younger faces that he still remembers well.

"Yeah, that's us. Rammstein." Oliver smiles and squeezes Paul's hand. "I think Ausländer was one of my favourite video shoots. And then you and I stayed in South Africa after the shoot was done and we went surfing together."

Oliver flips the photo over to read the handwritten text on the back. "February 2019, Cape Town. Jens Koch. That's well over 30 years ago." He looks at Paul, whose eyes have drifted towards the windows and the grey January weather.

"I talked to Jens a while ago. He's doing well, still taking photos." Oliver puts the photo down with the others and picks up another one. It's one of Paul's; a black and white photo of Schneider and Richard, taken at an airport. "Schneider says hi. He's feeling a bit unwell, so he couldn't come today."

Paul is looking at the picture in Oliver's hands. "Richard here?" There is hopefulness in his eyes.

“No, Richard’s not here.”

“Maybe New York. Maybe tomorrow.” Paul smiles.

Oliver smiles back, wearily. Wiping the corner of his eye with his palm, he leans closer, wrapping his frail, shrunken friend in a one handed hug. "Think of all the good times we have had together - the music, the shows, and the stupid things we did."

He pauses to look at Paul, whose eyes are closed. Pulling his hand away, he gently strokes the thin skin of Paul's cheek. "Should we look at more of your pictures?"

"I’m tired," Paul says, slightly uneasy now, as if his mind is trying to tell him something that he just can’t grasp.

"Okay, I'll put these away then." Oliver collects the pictures strewn all over the table into neat piles, stopping to admire one every now and then. He puts them back in the box labelled Rammstein and closes the lid.

"Want me to play for you?" he asks, and gets up to grab the acoustic guitar hanging on the wall. Paul hasn't played it for years now, but Oliver's playing seems to comfort him.

Paul nods. Oliver tunes the guitar. He tries a few chords, then starts playing. Familiar tones fill the room. Paul sits in his chair, his eyes still closed, but soon he seems to relax, his head starts nodding along with the music, then his fingers start moving, silently playing along with the riff.

Paul turns to look at his friend. There is a sudden recognition in his grey eyes. “Olli?”

“Hey, Paul.” Oliver smiles, surprised.

"You missed a note."

Paul starts singing the riff in that very _Paul_ way. He is right, of course, there was a note missing. Oliver chuckles as he repeats the riff, the correct way this time, asking for approval by raising his eyebrows at Paul, who listens intently, then nods before closing his eyes again.

“I always liked this riff. It’s happy and sad at the same time." Paul's voice is weak, but clear. "Maybe that’s why we kissed. It just felt right,” he says, pushing his jaw forward just slightly, as if waiting for Richard’s lips.

“You made quite some headlines after doing it in Moscow.”

“We did.” Paul says, a sadness in his voice now. “Richard - he is gone. Richard, Till, Flake. Gone.”

Oliver stops playing, resting his fingers on the strings. His heart breaks every time they have this conversation. Looking down for a while he gathers himself and lifts his gaze. "Yes, they're gone."

"I'm still here." Paul's eyes are moist.

"Yes, you are." 

Oliver forces a grin to hide the sadness and grief inside him. "What should I play next?"

Paul can’t name the song, but he starts humming a riff. Oliver swallows. He looks at Paul’s wrinkled hands, the steady hands that used to fly across the strings, creating those hard riffs so many people came to love. It is difficult to replicate them on an acoustic guitar, but he tries, and he sees Paul rocking his head to the beat.

Oliver closes his own eyes, and for a short while he is back on stage with the whole band, standing up front next to Paul, the audience is wild, and the two of them turn to each other and exchange glances and smiles and it is the best feeling in the world.

When he opens his eyes again, Paul’s mouth is half open and his breathing is rhythmic; he is sleeping. Oliver hangs the guitar back on the wall. He pulls the blanket in Paul’s lap over his friend’s frail shoulders and gently strokes the thin grey hair.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises.

Oliver puts on his jacket. He stops at the door and takes one last look at his friend who is sleeping peacefully. Paul’s words linger in his head. _I’m still here._

"I miss you so much," Oliver whispers. A tear rolls down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away and opens the door. "If you see the others, let them know I miss them, too. And please don’t stay for me. I’ll be with you soon enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> No one dies in the fic, but not everyone is alive.
> 
> We're sorry. But crying is good for you.


End file.
